by mercy of gods
by sumpetals
Summary: Berk has had its fair share of illnesses. Hiccup's immune system has played traitor to him more than once in his short life. This time, it's not as simple as a fever and a sneeze. (or: hiccup gets very, very sick, and all they can do is keep him comfortable while he rides it out.)
1. Chapter 1

**quick note**: no one dies. gonna be a lot of sick, bedridden hiccup, but he'll live. what he has is common for us, treatable with antibiotics, but they were out of luck in the viking age. i did as much research as humanly possible but for any inaccuracy, assume fanfic. lots of h/c, some angst, and a healthy dose of family & team bonding. some hiccstrid if you squint, but it takes place in the first season of riders of berk, so. lots of toothless.

i'll have warnings for any sick-stuff for the chapters!

* * *

In classic Berkian fashion, it happens rather dramatically:

"He's contagious! Quarantine 'im! Lock 'im up!" Mildew shouts, obnoxiously loud with a swing of his stick to the frozen ground. Stoick considers slapping him with it—either with the gods-forsaken rod, or the ground itself, it doesn't matter.

Snotlout, surprisingly, is the one to cut off the old man in self-righteous anger. "He has a _cold_, Mildew, he's not… not _you_!"

Mildew, sputtering with indignity, waves his stick threateningly at the boy with a cry of, "I'll show yo—"

"Enough!" Stoick bellows, effectively gaining the attention of every Viking gathered outside of the Great Hall. Should the weather grow any more tumultuous, they'll all be confined within the walls for the second time this week, and that's a bridge he'll have to cross later. "_No_ one is being quarantined. Yes, Hiccup is ill, and yes, the gods are not merciful in regards to the weather as of right now. Return to your homes, warm your hearths, and prepare for the ice, should it arrive tomorrow."

"So you'll condemn your people!" Mildew, knuckles white where he wraps his disgustingly skeletal fingers around his staff, is rigid and angry where he stands. Stoick wishes to cast him away, if only so he can go check on his son; Mildew will stir up trouble the best of times with the dragons, but when it comes to his boy, Stoick will have _none_ of it. "Your young and weak, your _elders_—"

"Hiccup's young and weak," Tuffnut not-so-helpfully points out, Astrid slinging him across the arm for the outburst. Stoick will need at least two ice blocks this evening. "What? He is!"

"He's _weak_, not young," Snotlout supplies, muttering into the growing crescendo of worried Vikings, and Spitelout narrows his eyes so gravely at his son, Stoick feels it down to his own old bones.

Stoick, however, has absolutely had enough of this, and of Mildew making a mockery of his son, so he holds up a commanding hand.

"I will not repeat myself!" That shuts everyone up. Even Mildew looks properly chastised, though the blessing is quickly crushed by the offending sneer he casts at Stoick. "Disperse, _now_. All of you. I will hear no more of this for the time being."

Leave it to his son to stir up the village.

* * *

_thirty-six hours earlier  
_

* * *

Despite the promise of late spring, Hiccup is pretty sure Idunn is playing them all for fools.

"It's so frickin' _cold_," Snotlout complains, the fifth time this morning, and Astrid launches her axe over his head, the weapon embedding itself in a nearby tree. He screams, scrabbling for his helmet. "What—why? Why are you _like_ this?"

Astrid shrugs, hands on her hips as she cheerily says, "Got your adrenaline pumping, right? Should warm you right up."

Hiccup chuckles, sinking further against Toothless' side, sprawled out where he is amongst the bushes and trees; they should really be training, or practicing back at the Academy, but his dad had made him promise up and down that they'd steer clear of the village out of fear of the twins causing irreparable damage to the food stock, and Hiccup can't blame him. Spring or not, the ominous clouds hanging low over the horizon promise nothing but a bitter, cold night, and everyone had been content to hangout on Raven's Point for the day.

The twins had called it vacation. Astrid had called it on-the-ground training.

Hiccup doesn't care what they call it, so long as they leave him out of it because his head is pounding harder than Gobber working on a rotted Nadder's tooth.

"We shoulda brought more yak chops," Ruffnutt mutters, burying her head in a log. Hiccup could ask, but he doesn't. "We're not gonna get _anything_ outta the Hall tonight, not with _everyone_ there."

"My dad would've killed you if you stole any more rations," Hiccup points out, sketching a rough outline of their current location. What he should've brought was more charcoal, honestly. "You three are the reason I have to make so many ice runs, you know."

Snotlout snorts, heading towards Ruff's log with devious intent. "Don't lump me in with those two idiots."

"Ruff, watch out," Hiccup warns, cocking an eyebrow at his cousin's attempt at treachery. Snotlout freezes. He'll regret this question, but: "What are you doing in there, anyway?"

"She's looking for Terrible Terrors so we can raid Snotlout's hut," Tuffnut explains, and Hiccup has many, many regrets, but he's starting to think maybe his biggest one was promising his dad that he'd keep his friends occupied for the entire day outside of the village.

He can only sigh when the twins and Snotlout start an all-out war over the poor, abused log.

They can't head out of the island, not with the incoming storm; they're stuck with all this excess energy, dragons indefinitely grounded until further notice, and if Hiccup is honest with himself, he's too tired to go for more than a day's flight anyway. It leaves them with little to do except parade around the Point, harass the poor wildlife, and maybe scope out any unknown dragons they come across. Fishlegs had been the only lucky one: his mom needed help doling out extra batches of yak broth in preparation of the sick.

Gods, he's tired. His head also really, really hurts. An excellent combination, in Hiccup's opinion.

"Hey," Astrid murmurs, taking up the vacated dirt next to him. Toothless chirps happily. "You alright? You've been zoning in and out all morning."

Hiccup shrugs, says, "Me? Yeah, I'm fine. Just worried, I guess. Last time we got a storm around this time, well…"

"I know." Astrid nods, nudging her shoulder against Hiccup's. The camaraderie is nice, a welcome change from the shouts of Ruff and Snotlout attempting to shove Tuffnut's head into the ground. Astrid continues, "We're better prepared this time."

"S'what my dad said, too." Hiccup isn't so sure, but he's also not a healer. "Overheard him talking to Gobber and Gothi last night. Guess Gothi's worried about the newborns."

Astrid nods, stretching out her legs in front of her, a languid expanse of limbs that Hiccup doesn't mind sharing his space with.

"Like I said: better prepared," Astrid tells him, far more confident than he feels. Last time they had a nasty storm so late in the season, sickness had struck fast and quick; Hiccup had been lucky. He'd had a fever, sweat a little, spent a week in bed.

He'd been eleven.

"We should probably help him," Hiccup says, waving a hand at the devolving scene in front of them. The log—already rotting from the rainstorms of the past month—is cracking as Tuffnut lifts it above his head, clearly intent on smacking Snotlout with it.

Astrid hums. "We should," she agrees.

Neither of them make an effort to move.

* * *

"Dad!" Hiccup calls, nearly tripping over Sven as the man herds his sheep into the Hall. _That__'s_ going to make an interesting night. If all goes well, Hiccup won't have to deal with it. "Dad, hey—"

"Hiccup," his dad acknowledges, followed by: "No, _no_, Mulch, we need the—oh, Odin help us…"

He supposes, in his dad's defense, the storm's approach is catching them all off-guard. What had been a twenty-eight hour prediction has dropped to eight at most, and the teens had made a break for it once the hail had begun; it's a piercing, sharp cold that awaits the outside, and most of the village is already piled into the Hall to bunker down for the night.

It's barely noon.

"Dad—"

"Hiccup." Gobber's hand falls on his shoulder, directing him away from the only saving grace Hiccup has to the blissful silence of his hut. Toothless warbles behind them. "C'mon, lad. Ye can help me with settin' up the servin' station."

"Oh, hi, Gobber," Hiccup manages, stumbling along. "Uh, actually, can it wait, like, thirty seconds? I just—"

"Nope." The grip on his shoulder is oddly firm. Hiccup tries very, very hard not be offended. "No slackin' today. Storm's a'comin', and yer father could use all the help he can get."

No arguing with that, even though Hiccup desperately wants to; defeated, he trails his mentor, a corner of the Hall already dedicated to dispersing food.

"We've got the Ingermans' homemade stock," Gobber explains, dragging over one of the massive tables as Hiccup stands idly by. "The Haggards are cookin' up some mutton and chops for dinner, so got that covered. Soups and broths for now. Rations've been sorted already. Yer job is the usual: get 'em on the table, then start handin' them out. Got a lot of sick, hungry folks today. Once lunch is over, _then_ go find yer father and pester him."

"I wasn't gonna pester him," Hiccup mumbles, narrowly catching the apron Gobber tosses at him. He ties it around his neck, mentally cataloguing what needs to be done: set the table, serve, clean it up. Easy. It's tradition at this point.

Gobber laughs heartily, a one-armed hug in place of departing words as he hobbles off, leaving Hiccup to his own devices.

Well… Hiccup and Toothless.

After years of this, it's easy; he lines up the pots of soup first, heading to the storage room and carefully balancing as many bowls as humanly possibly. When he starts losing balance, Toothless pushes him upright, bearing some of the weight of the supplies as the two of them make their way back into the bulk of the Hall.

"We'll make sure you all have plenty of fish," Hiccup says, removing the lids off the pots and wrinkling his nose. "Ugh, these just smell like sickness and my dad forcing broth down my throat."

Toothless growls sympathetically, sniffing at the pot in solidarity, but he recoils all the same.

"That's bone broth for you, bud," Hiccup says solemnly, doling out the food in the bowls. "Sometimes we have fish broth, but with all you reptiles eating them raw, we don't really need 'em."

Toothless huffs, licking Hiccup's face affectionately, which earns him a cry of, "Oh, _gross_, bud, I can't even wash that off tonight, you're killing me here!"

A gummy laugh and a scratching from Hiccup later, the villagers—cold and hungry and just a little bit grumpy—start lining up, grateful for warm food; Toothless helps, a low, gentle heat for a bowl every time someone holds it up, and the system is _flawless_. Hiccup is rather proud of Toothless, coming up with the idea all on his own. A storm like this, and people suffer; the dragons won't allow it, not anymore.

The one exception is Mildew.

"I won't allow that _beast_ to taint my food," he grumbles, yanking a bowl off the table and glaring. Hiccup shrugs.

"That's okay. It should still be warm—we kept it on the fire as long as possible."

Mildew sneers, but says no more as he saunters away.

"Typical Mildew," Astrid mutters, grabbing one of the last bowls and joining Hiccup at the table. He has no idea how long he's been standing now, but nearly everyone's been fed and the Hall is a chatter of pleased, warm Vikings, so. "You'd think we're trying to poison him or something."

"Don't let him hear you," Hiccup teases quietly, Toothless heating up Astrid's bowl. She gives him a thankful grin, scratching the scales of his forehead. "He might think you're serious."

Astrid laughs, leaning against the wall and sipping at the soup; she had gone for the bone broth. Awful.

"Storm's gotten pretty bad," Astrid begins, stirring the contents of her bowl. "Your dad's gone through everyone's hut, made sure no one's been left behind. Looks like we're stuck here until it clears."

Hiccup, still hanging onto the thin shred of hope that he might be able to escape for the night, lets his shoulders droop. "Great."

"You know he'd never let you stay at home," she says gently, kicking his foot. "_Especially_ if you told him you aren't feeling well. He'd just… stick you in one of the beds for the day."

"I was gonna tell him I left something and I'd be two seconds, and then whoops, got snowed in."

Astrid blinks, stares at him, looks ready to punch him in the arm. Maybe walk away. He has that effect on people sometimes.

"You, Hiccup Haddock," she says, shaking her head, "are crazy."

Toothless, warbling in agreement, nuzzles into his side.

"Don't take her side on this," he mutters, the last of the bowls being snatched by a few wayward children. He gives them an encouraging smile, and they giggle, braids twirling behind them as they dart to their parents.

"Seriously, Hiccup." Of course she's relentless on this, and Hiccup joins her against the wall, exhausted now that lunch has officially ended. "You should at least tell him—"

"Nope," he interrupts. Headache? He can handle it. He's had way worse. Astrid only knows because Astrid picks up on everything, and she can fight him, to be perfectly honest. "You know how my dad is. I'm fine, and there's too much to do, anyway. I just wanted to sleep at home. Sven's snoring is_ literally_ the worst."

She can't argue with that logic, though she definitely looks like she wants to try.

"Okay," she concedes, finishing off her broth and pushing away from the wall. He already misses her company. "I told my dad I'd teach him some stuff with Stormfly, but if you need anything…"

He smiles, almost genuine, and waves her off.

"I'll find you," he lies, and she's gone before she can call him on his bluff.

* * *

With everyone settled, fed, and marginally more happy than they would be out in the freezing cold, Hiccup takes the opportunity to track down his wayward dad.

"I'll be right back, bud," he tells Toothless, leaving him with a fairly massive basket of cod and haddock that Hookfang eyes him hungrily over. Snotlout is too busy chatting excitedly to his dad to notice, so Hiccup adds, "And if Hookfang tries to steal your dinner, I give you full permission to eat Snotlout."

Toothless gurgles a laugh, diving happily into his early meal, and Hiccup heads for the door. It's a blessing from Odin—or perhaps Loki—that no one notices him slipping out, though as soon as he faces the brunt of the wind, he has his doubts about hunting his father down at all. The snow hasn't quite built up yet, a spattering of hail leaving the ground a mess of crystallized rain instead, but the chill is bitter enough to seep through the rather weak protective layer of his tunic.

Thirty seconds in, and his teeth are chattering.

He's already made it this far, however; the village is empty, a customary tradition for a storm this severe, but his dad hasn't returned to the Great Hall yet and Hiccup has a few hours to kill before he has to feed the tribe again. Gobber's going to kill him for being out here, and probably Astrid, too, and his dad—okay, so this was a terrible idea, because it's barely been five minutes and his nails are a rather awful shade of blue and there's ice sticking to the ends of his hair and his _freckles_ are cold.

"Hiccup!" Someone is shouting, very angry, very worried, and very much dad-sounding. "Hiccup, what're you doin' out here? Get—"

"Inside, I know." At least it's not a dragon raid, he figures, watching in misplaced amusement as his dad bounds up through the village square with a soaking wet, half-frozen Ack behind him. Hiccup isn't sure when his feet carried him this far. "I was, uh, looking for you."

His father sighs, looking less like a chief and more like an exhausted, worried father, and Hiccup realizes he hasn't been thinking clearly since dawn broke the horizon.

He doesn't tell his dad that, though.

"Let's go." His father gestures to the hill, up towards the Great Hall, Ack and Hiccup taking the lead. Ack looks nearly as frozen as Hiccup feels.

"What happened to you?" he asks, eyeing the poor Viking.

Ack, miserable and dripping with sea water, explains tiredly, "Ship got caught in the storm. Me whole boat is gone."

"We'll replace it after the storm passes," he assures, patting the poor man's arm reassuringly, and a bit of spring comes back to Ack's step. "Bucket says it should only stick around for a few days."

"Aye," his dad confirms, hand on Hiccup's shoulder. The Great Hall looms over them, the warmth blistering once they step inside; definitely a mistake to leave. Not one of his best ideas.

Ack, back in the embrace of life, heads off, most likely to find spare clothes that aren't damp with ocean and ice; his father turns to him instead, voice leaving no room to argue when he says, "I want you to find Gothi and have her give you some—"

"Oh, gods, no." Hiccup groans, burying his face in his hands. His father takes it in stride. "Dad, I'm not a kid anymore. I'll be _fine_."

One of his hands is cradled gently, thick fingers around his wrist.

"Your nails are blue," his dad says dryly. "Humour me, son."

They stare at each other, his hand still in his dad's, the heat of the Hall leaving Hiccup's body sort of numb and weak from the stark shift of being in the cold, and it's with a long-suffering sigh that his father finally relents.

"This isn't a request, Hiccup," he mutters, letting go of his hand. He makes an aborted gesture towards Gothi, surrounded by a pack of Terrors near one of the fire pits. "Go, or I'll have Spitelout babysit you for the night."

An empty threat, but _still. _"Babysi—_dad!_"

"Go!"

Hiccup, tempted to fuel all teenaged defiance into his admittedly small frame, deflates at the stern glare being sent his way. Huffing, he turns on his heel, muttering under his breath and debating slipping out of the Hall later with Toothless anyway to hide out at his hut; yes, his dad will definitely murder him, and yes, it won't end well—but he'll have a night to himself without being watched by the entire village for signs of impending _sickness_ just because some stupid storm decided to play havoc with his immune system.

He'd like to point out that he hasn't been sick since before the dragons took up residence, that his immunity has probably buffed itself as a result of that small fact, and if he _is_ getting sick, a bit of a cold or common bug isn't enough to keep him down anymore. He'll drink the disgusting broth, sweat out the fever, and be back on Toothless in a matter of hours. His body will adjust.

"Hey, bud," he greets, Toothless bounding up curiously while Hiccup takes his sweet, precious time towards Gothi. He can already taste the bitter, earthly tea of herbs. "I see Snotlout remains uneaten."

Toothless nuzzles his hand, purring in agreement, and that's enough to cheer Hiccup up a bit.

Gothi's expecting him, of course; she's brewed a mug already, a thick, wooden cup filled to the brim with a murky liquid, a heavy texture of ribwort and yarrow. It smells awful. He really, really doesn't want to, but her no-nonsense stare is more foreboding than his father's, so he takes it with a weak grin and says, "Thanks, Gothi."

Maybe he can pawn it off on one of the twins as a prank.

He finds the other teens huddled around the newest baby Gronckle, Fishlegs feeding him a slow assortment of rocks, and even Snotlout looks mildly interested when Hiccup and Toothless join them. The baby had just hatched yesterday, a rarity for this time of year, and Fishlegs had taken it upon himself to look after the small-ish creature with help from Meatlug. The Gronckle has no complaints.

"Hiccup!" Fishlegs cries happily, offering the dragon a piece of pyrite. "You won't _believe_ this—"

"Nerd," Snotlout chimes in. Astrid slaps the back of his head.

"_Anyway_," Fishlegs continues, snatching up the remainder of the pyrite and giving it to Meatlug. "This baby is one of the biggest Gronckles we've seen for this age! Phlegma really wants him, so do you think we can start training him this week?"

Hiccup grins, petting the overexcited Gronckle as he rolls onto his side; the dragon is just a smaller, grayer, softer Meatlug, and Hiccup says, "Yeah, I don't see why not. We'll wait for the storm to clear."

"We could train him in here," Tuffnut mutters conspiratorially, slamming his helmet against Ruff's, and the thought of the entire Hall bursting into flames has Hiccup's stomach doing violent rolls. "Mildew would make awesome target practice."

"Oh, oh!" Ruffnut, finding this brilliant, slings an arm around her brother's neck and adds, "We could totally redecorate this place! Turn it into a dragon training _hall_! Like the Academy, except, y'know, a hall."

"No," Hiccup says, throwing his free hand up. Maybe he should drink the herbs after all, regardless of how they knock him out. "No, no one is training any dragons in here. We keep them calm, distracted, and no one gets hurt. Please."

"We got this, Hiccup," Astrid assures him quietly, the twins plotting something Hiccup wants no part of but will inevitably have to clean up. She nods to the mug in his hand. "What is that? Smells like Gothi's weird tea."

Hiccup, having hoped to have accidentally spilled it, pawned it, or some other miraculous… miracle by now, purses his lips. "That's exactly what it is."

"Oh," she says, wrinkling her nose. "I never figured out what was in that stuff."

"Gobber told me once," Hiccup mutters, staring into the unappetizing liquid. Not like his dad would notice if he just so happened to dump it somewhere. "It's just some herbs, boiled water…"

Astrid sniffs it again, shuddering in revulsion, and he can't blame her.

"I can tell," she complains, waving her hand over her nose. Hiccup's so used to it by now that he's forgotten how awful it can be; he's sympathetic, but only slightly. "Are you gonna drink it, or…?"

"I'd rather not," he says, brutally honest. "It's my dad being my dad."

She understands, and—thankfully—doesn't pressure him anymore than that, most likely due to the fact that Snotlout chooses that moment to toss a yak chop at Tuffnut's head.

"Oh, come _on_," Hiccup cries in frustration, drink forgotten on the table as he and Astrid attempt to wrangle their friends.

* * *

It's not that they've never had a food fight.

It's that they've never had a food fight _while under siege_ by a snow storm worthy of the gods.

"You lot will be the death of me," his dad tells them, Hiccup wiping stray mash out of his fringe. Gods, that's disgusting, and he mentally calculates how long it'll take to calibrate something that will toss Snotlout and Tuffnut into the sun. "Alright, you three," he says, gesturing to Snotlout and the twins, "you're to remain with your families for the night. Astrid, you're free to go, but I imagine your mother would like a word."

"Yes, sir," is the collective response. Astrid's not in trouble, that much Hiccup knows, but Stormfly's immediate response to her rider being in food-related peril had been to toss out spines; Gothi's Terrors had narrowly escaped.

"Fishlegs," he continues, the poor boy shivering, "go to your parents, lad. They're cooking up more batches of soup to last the night and could use your help."

"Oh… oh, okay, sir," he mumbles, waving to Hiccup before disappearing into the Hall. Hiccup misses the company already.

"As for _you_."

"I tried to stop them," Hiccup points out, grimacing at the truly awful sensation of meat in his hair. Toothless helpfully licks him, and Hiccup doesn't bother fighting him off this time. "I swear, I tried. In case you hadn't noticed, I hid behind a table for most of that."

His father chuckles, taking a seat next to Hiccup on the bench; Hiccup merely drops his head onto his arms and lets the tension drain out of him. The harsh whistle of the wind beating at the walls tells them all they need to know about the torrent hailing outside.

"Lucky for you lot, enough food survived to feed everyone," his dad says quietly, absently patting Hiccup's back with a gentleness Hiccup didn't realize he was missing. "I suppose having six teenagers used to flying cooped up here is bound to leave some messes."

"Urgh," is all Hiccup has to say to that. At least the food fight had effectively curbed the twins' need for a makeshift training academy within the Hall, which is a relief, because Hiccup doesn't have the energy to put out any more fires tonight—metaphorical _or_ literal. Even Toothless is exhausted, curled up by one of the fire pits with freshly burnt stone beneath his body to stay warm, and Hiccup seriously considers joining him. It's not weird anymore: the sight of a Viking sleeping on top of a dragon, especially if that Viking just so happens to be Hiccup, and the dragon turns out to be a giant, overprotective Night Fury. It'd be more comfortable than the wooden, worn out bench he's currently made a home out of.

Then there's a hand on the back of his neck, warm and comforting, and his father murmurs, "Hiccup, you're warm."

"It's very warm in here," he argues, rolling his head to the side to peek over at his dad. "A lot of fire. A lot of fire-breathing reptiles."

There's no mirth in his dad's voice when he says, "You're getting sick."

"I'm _fine_," he tries, because he's _not_, he refuses; pure willpower will have to be enough to fight it off, and he'll muscle his way through it if he has to. His dad's done it before, during a particularly nasty dragon raid when Hiccup had been nine. "Just tired. _You_ try stopping the twins from shoving an entire yak chop down Snotlout's throat."

"I'm the Chief, son."

That's a fair point.

"Fair," Hiccup admits, and if he's pouting, no one is around except his dad to prove it. "I'll sleep it off, alright?"

His father mulls that over, massive hand still on the swell of his neck, before settling on: "Fine, but if at any point you feel unwell, you're to head straight to Gothi for another dose. Understood?"

He definitely doesn't tell his dad that he completely forgot about the tea, or that he feels pretty awful already and there's an entire forge taking up residence in his skull, a Smokebreath in the hollow of his lungs.

Instead, he says, "Yeah, dad. Got it."

* * *

The Great Hall in the dead of night is a sight to behold.

Most are asleep; Stoick and Spitelout pace the cleared walkways, nodding to those up and about or beginning to turn in. The teens have taken up bed with their dragons: Fishlegs is crushed beneath his Gronckle, snoring happily, that strange boy; the twins, finally out of his hair, are flopped haphazardly over their Zippleback's body, snoring louder than even Sven; Snotlout is merely sprawled against his Nightmare's flank, his helmet hiding his eyes, and Spitelout looks rather proud for once; and Astrid, even in sleep, is fierce, Nadder curled around her in a protective cocoon, an axe in the girl's hands.

The important thing, Stoick decides, is that none of them can cause any _trouble_.

"Surprised your boy hasn't made a run for it," Spitelout mutters, nodding to where Hiccup and Toothless are burrowed into the farthest corner. He'd asked the dragon to keep Hiccup inside. So far, nothing amiss. "By this time, we'd be luggin' him back here from yer house."

Stoick rubs the bridge of his nose, recalling all too well the winter storms spent with the tribe in here, the nights Hiccup had escaped in a vain attempt to be alone with no regard to his own safety.

He's still that same, reckless, amazing child—except now he's fifteen, and Stoick is all too familiar with the perceived invincibility of teenagers.

A hacking, distressed cough distracts their conversation, the two men immediately glancing to the families with the smallest children; the newborns are at highest risk, and he will _not_ lose any more children to the fury of the gods, the hands of Hel.

"That's a promising sign," Spitelout says, eyebrow cocked as he stares at the same corner they had just discussed. "Not much has changed, then."

Of course it's Hiccup. Of course the awful, bone-aching claw of coughing is coming from his boy, face pressed into his dragon's hide, shoulders shaking the closer Stoick approaches. Spitelout doesn't follow, the coughing having roused some of the other villagers; Stoick will have to deal with that after. For now: Hiccup.

"M'fine," Hiccup grates out, clearly lucid, but it's pursued by a dry, deep cough that rattles Hiccup's entire frame. The boy looks even smaller like this, and Stoick spares a moment to curse at the weather. "J—jus—"

"You're sick," Stoick says simply, no longer booking room for argument. It's the middle of the night, the snow is battling the walls, the wind is howling harsher than the wolves during the summer's moon cusp, and Hiccup is struggling to breathe. "Up, come on."

He helps his boy sit, Toothless cooing in concern, and the two of them get Hiccup situated; his skin is warm to the touch, not quite more than earlier, but definitely the stirrings of a fever. He's paler than usual. Shallow breaths. Stoick is no healer, but he knows the symptoms of sickness when he sees them, and he says to Toothless, "Keep him seated. I'll be back."

He spares no moments, finding Gothi's nest of Terrors and praying that he won't have to wake her too roughly; the old woman is never pleasant in the mornings, let alone the dead of night, but he comes upon her wide awake and already making to stand. Gobber, half-asleep, tooth askew and rubbing the back of his head, offers in lieu of explanation, "Says the lad's sick. Saw it the afternoon 'n' knew ye'd be comin' for her."

Stoick nods, the three of them taking the path of least resistance around the mound of sleeping bodies to Hiccup and Toothless; he's sitting up, but barely, swallowing back cough after cough, clearly a losing battle. Gothi wastes no time, preemptively reaching into her pouch and throwing a handful of sand onto the floor; her hands search Hiccup's face, drawing his attention to her, spindly fingers prodding at his neck and the swell of his cheeks. He doesn't put up a fight.

That's Stoick's first warning sign.

"Had a feelin' somethin' was wrong," Gobber whispers to him, biting back a yawn. Stoick folds his arms across the expanse of his chest. "Found an abandoned mug earlier, and I doubt any of the kiddos would get away with snubbin' their medicine."

Stoick sighs. "Leave it to Hiccup," he grumbles.

Minutes pass in silence, Gothi working diligently: a palm to Hiccup's forehead; a hand to his neck, checking the space of his heartbeat; with help from Stoick, they lift off his vest and tunic, and she taps at his ribs. Gothi instructs him to lay down, Hiccup oddly quiet through all this, and Stoick helps him to relax, nestled against Toothless' flank while the dragon purrs in worry. Stoick understands.

"S'a cold," Hiccup slurs, burying his head into Toothless, but the look on Gothi's aged, wise face says otherwise. She places a delicate ear to his chest, listens to the wisps of his breathing, and sighs.

The runes she writes out are archaic and not up for his interpretation, so Gobber steps forward, eyebrow furrowed as he begins the deciphering process; for once, there is no guesswork as he does, eyes roaming over the sand in quick bursts of surety.

"An infection," he says eventually, shaking his head. "Lungs. Same one—"

"From when he was a boy," Stoick finishes, Gothi nodding gravely. The same one that had taken four newborns and the weaker elders that winter, and nearly his own son. "How? It's been almost a _decade_—"

Gothi scribbles again, Gobber attempting to keep up.

"Says… no way of knowing… Happens. Cold, something picked up from… trading… the waters…"

The news brings with it a whole plethora of issues: his son is sick, something that has no cure, that he has to wait out; the sickness is, unfortunately, contagious, and right now, the entire village is huddled into one massive, giant hall. He can't take Hiccup home, not in this weather, and risk making him worse, but he can't risk exposing the children and the susceptible to the virus.

"She'll make somethin' for the pain," Gobber continues, pulling the blanket over Hiccup's shivering shoulders. No use redressing him; Stoick's going to have to burn the clothes, most likely. Gothi nods, heading back towards her own set-up, and Stoick breathes in heavily, a gentle hand weaving through his boy's soft hair. He's stronger, now; he can swing a sword, hold his own, almost, in battle.

And yet.

"Gobber," Stoick instructs, snapping back into Chief. "I need you to get Hiccup and Toothless to the storage room. Get as many blankets as possible, light the hearth, and keep him warm. No one needs to know yet—last thing we need is an uprising of panic."

"Aye, Chief." Gobber salutes, clapping him on the shoulder with his good hand and moving to scoop his young protege. Gods, he's still so _small_, due for another growth spurt yet it denying him all the same, and it's in this moment that Stoick is struck with just how trying the next few weeks are going to be for both him and Hiccup.

Gods help them all.

* * *

_am twitter & AO3 under same pen friendos_


	2. Chapter 2

**quick** **note: **thank you so much to everyone who left feedback/favourited/followed! it means a lot to see that, and y'all keep me going.

lots of father/son bonding in this chapter. stoick loves his hooligan son & i'll take that to my grave. family comes first. also a lot of hiccup/toothless. see it as you will.

keep in mind that hiccup is very, very ill. he wants his dad. he's fifteen. stoick recently almost lost his son to a giant monster of a dragon, and now his son is fighting a battle that can't be cured. the main point of this story is a lot of hiccup & everyone, but mostly hiccup & stoick & toothless. i'm weak ok! i love my found families! esp found families that just so happen to be broken blood families!

ANYWAY. things will get worse from here on out before they will get better, but they WILL get better! i promise! the others will be involved! gen for all!

warnings for chapter: vomiting, fever dreams, bloodletting, & descriptions of coughing w/ mucus.

* * *

Everything hurts.

Like, literally everything—his head, his chest, his legs, his _prosthetic_. He momentarily panics, surrounded by darkness aside from the dying glow of embers of the hearth, and that's… well, that's the storage room hearth, and there's an awful lot of bowls and sacks surrounding him, which means he must have fallen asleep in the storage room. Except he distinctly remembers falling asleep in the Hall, wrapped around Toothless, only to be woken up by his own—

Ah. Right. Coughing.

He groans, attempting to sit up; dragon paws on his chest prevent him from doing so, a warbling noise of protest from Toothless that keeps him on the floor. He has an entire nest of blankets beneath him, a damp cloth draped over his bare chest—_that's_ something to unpack later—and other than Toothless, he's alone. They moved him in here, away from the rest of the village. Logically, he knows it's because he's sick; because he's sick, the fevered part of his mind is telling him it's because they don't want him around. It's a rather jarring sensation, though he has little time to contemplate it before the contents of his stomach are rebelling against him. He has less than a second to jerk away from his makeshift bed, retching onto the floor and spilling what little he managed to eat that day. It burns and his eyes water and his head aches and he's only able to catch his breath when a large hand soothes the space between his shoulder blades.

"Easy, Hiccup," his dad murmurs, easing him back onto the blankets. The cloth from his chest leaves him cold and exposed, but at least the disgusting spittle around his mouth is being wiped away.

"Gross," he mutters, a half-choked gurgle of a noise. His dad chuckles, tossing the cloth somewhere Hiccup doesn't want to know. "Why…"

So, talking is out of the question; even the sort-of-question takes most of his energy, and his dad hushes him, nestling him back against the blankets. It's the most anxious he's seen his father since the Red Death, and that's startling all on its own.

"You're on strict bed rest until further notice." His dad putters, cleaning up his sick and relighting the hearth. Watching him has Hiccup's head spinning all over again; he closes his eyes, chest rattling in its cage. "I see you didn't drink your tea earlier."

Quietly, he mumbles, "Forgot."

"Don't think it would have made much of a difference, son." A hand is back on his forehead, comforting as it is warm, and Hiccup finds himself leaning into the touch. He _hates_ being sick, hates that it leaves him without energy, leaves him vulnerable and a little more useless. His dad used to call him clingy. At least now he has Toothless. "Come morning, we should be able to move you back home. Try and get some rest, alright?"

"M'not tired," he says, rather intelligently he might add, curling up onto his side and burrowing into Toothless. His dragon purrs at him, worried and concerned and cocooning him as much as the blankets. Not much of an argument. "Jus' a cold."

There's a beat of silence, and Hiccup almost—_almost_—slips back asleep, despite his valiant attempts to stay conscious. His dad's voice is thick when he says, "Hiccup, this is not a simple cold."

The small, exhausted part of his brain wants to agree, wants to huddle back under the blankets with his dragon and go back to sleep and wake up in a few days when his body isn't rebelling against him; the stubborn part of him, however, is determined to make Hiccup suffer.

"Went outside," Hiccup points out, sniffling. The Rotted Nadder's Tooth headache has been upgraded to those days in the arena, tossed around with the stone walls digging into every muscle and tendon. "S'probably from that."

Toothless huffs at his face, a sudden burst of fish-breath and warm familiarity, and Hiccup snorts out something caught between a laugh and a sob. He can't even remember what he ate today.

"I'm going to take our elder's word over yours," his dad tells him, a cold cloth being placed against the warmth of his face. Hiccup sighs, eyes closing involuntarily as his dad pats his cheeks and neck down. He refuses to feel like a child again. "This isn't a debate, son. You're ill. Rest."

Hiccup sticks out his tongue, more out of childish exhaustion than anything, but he blearily cracks his eyes open in time to see his dad rolling his own eyes at him, amusement caught between worry. He's _not_ sick—maybe a cold, maybe something caught off the last trade, but he's _not _a kid anymore—

"Sleep," his dad gently commands, folding the cloth into two and resting it on Hiccup's forehead. "Any one of us could have caught this. It just so happened to be you. Enough stubbornness, and _sleep_."

A fight for tomorrow, maybe.

"'Kay," he grumbles, Toothless crooning in approval and burrowing around Hiccup, a larger, human hand in his tangled hair, smoothing it back.

Hiccup drifts off long before Stoick has the heart to leave his boy.

* * *

The storm, praise the gods, breaks come morning.

The village survives; huts are left covered in a thick sheen of snow and ice, the ground will take some time to be suitable for crops due to it being frozen, and the ocean and rivers are near solid, but they've trudged through far worse. It'll take some clearing, but Stoick gives the go-ahead for the village to clear out and head home, with warnings to stay warm and dig out only what they must in fear of another storm on the horizon. Late spring or not, the gods are toying with them, and Stoick will not risk his people for what they do not yet need. They have enough food to survive the next few months, should the need arise.

Once the Hall is cleared, he's left with another problem: Hiccup's friends.

"Have you seen him?" Fishlegs asks, hands clasped excitedly, and while Stoick is glad that Hiccup has amassed such loyalty, he's not sure how to approach this. "We're supposed to train a Gronckle today!"

"Yeah, we haven't seen him all morning," Astrid points out, rubbing her arm. She knows something is wrong; the lass always does. "Is he alright?"

"He'll be fine," Stoick assures them—well, the two of them. The twins and Snotlout don't seem too engrossed in the conversation, more involved with a debate over ice fighting, and Stoick has too much else to deal with today than those three. A pang of sympathy for his son rings strong within his chest. "He's fallen a bit ill, but nothing to worry about. When he's feeling up for visitors, you…" He spares a glance at his nephew and the twins, shaking his head. "You two will be the first to know."

"Okay," Astrid says, something itching on the tip of her tongue, but she bites it back and motions for Fishlegs to follow her. They both bid him a farewell, knocking the other teens out of the way to get them moving, and Stoick proceeds on with the rest of his day.

Gobber, thankfully, had taken the liberty of carrying Hiccup back to the hut as soon as day had broken, the sun blessing them with a brief respite long before anyone else had woken. Toothless hadn't been able to follow, but with everyone causing a commotion to get back into their routines, Stoick watches in amusement as the dragon bounds through the large doors and barrels straight into Stoick's hulking form.

"Hello, Toothless," he offers, petting the beast under the chin. The dragon gives him a mighty warble in response. "Yes, let's go check on our boy."

* * *

"Ah, Stoick!" Gobber greets upon arrival, two mugs of warmed mead on the dining table along with bowls of porridge and dried fruit. "Lad's upstairs, sound asleep. Don't go wakin' 'im up, Toothle—"

The dragon pays no mind, chirping as he glides up the stairs.

"Okay then." Gobber sighs. "Well, I'm beat."

They sit, old seats a tradition as they prepare for the day; he can't ignore his duties, no matter how badly he'd like to stay and make sure Hiccup doesn't cough up a lung while he's away. He finishes the porridge, bland and tasteless, and the fruit isn't much better—the crops haven't had much time to truly flourish yet. If Hiccup is feeling up for it later, he'll bring his son a pear or two as a treat, one of the few winter fruits surviving the harsher weather.

"Most boats made the night," Gobber begins listing, taking a swig of mead. Stoick nurses his own mug. "Checked the huts meself and nothin' seems too damaged. Some stables'll have to be touched up, but less than a day's work, I'd wager."

"And the farms?"

Gobber shrugs, less sure.

"Not as good," he says, tossing a log into the fire. "Lots'a dead crops, but Odin willin', should be salvageable in the comin' weeks. Animals are well, though shaken up. Dragons kept 'em warm."

A relief. Despite the severity of the storm, they've come out far better than expected, and should the weather remain on their side, they'll have ample time to repair the damage done.

"He's not lookin' too well," Gobber says quietly, as serious as Stoick knows him. "Gothi left a stock of supplies, but with this weather…"

"Aye," he agrees, rubbing at his forehead and sighing into his mug. "Trekking for her won't be easy. If he gets worse, I'll take him to her myself."

Gobber nods, throwing back the rest of his mead and popping his shoulder. "I can stay, if ye want. Keep the boy company. Don't know how much the dragon knows about human medicine, but I doubt he can boil some mint for the lad."

Stoick's laugh is humourless, the thought an amusing one nonetheless; somewhere above them, Toothless snorts, somehow sounding aggrieved by such a suggestion. It's quickly chased by the grip of coughing around his boy, and Stoick and Gobber are both up, tearing the stairs while Toothless' heavy paws pace the floor. Hiccup is on his side, fingernails digging into the wood as he hacks, and Stoick's heart aches for him—even now, throes of sickness clinging to him, he tries to toss it away as though it's nothing.

"S'no—"

"Enough," Stoick interrupts, as soft as he can with the frustration warring with him. Gobber's mismatched steps are back down, clanging around in the kitchen, while Stoick works at getting Hiccup into a proper seated position. "Up, now. That's it."

It doesn't abate. His chest heaves with the force of the coughs, a wicked noise of phlegm and pain in his lungs, and Hiccup's cheeks are flushed from the effort. He covers his mouth, spine folding in, and Stoick brushes his son's fringe back as Hiccup gives one last, blood-curdling shudder, something wet and sticky and _red_ in his palm that his Stoick's own blood running cold.

For a terrorizing breath, neither of them speak.

Then it's a flurry of movement.

"Gobber!" Stoick calls, stomping for the door, nearly stepping on a frantic Toothless. He can't transport Hiccup, not like this. "Gothi, _now_."

The front door slamming briefly registers; Hiccup is shivering on the bed, staring at his hand with something like wonder, and Stoick nearly jogs downstairs. He grabs a pot, bolting outside for a moment to scoop out a decent amount of snow, before shoving it on the hook over the cooking hearth, still lit from Gobber. Next is a rag from the cupboard, only ever used on Hiccup for days like these, and Stoick is grateful that Val had given him the foresight to stock the kitchen with necessities before—

No. Not now.

Time slows, the snow's effort to melt too much of a snail's pace for him, before it finally comes to a boil. He dunks the rag, twisting out the excess and heading for the stairs once again; Hiccup has yet to move, though his breathing is laboured and Toothless' croons are those of deep, deep concern.

"It's alright," he tells the beast, an attempt to reassure the three of them, and Hiccup's eyes are glassy when he finally dares to look up. He's been crying, either from the force of the hacking or from fear, Stoick isn't sure. He has no time to ponder. He cradles Hiccup's hands, swiping the hot cloth over his palms and between his fingers, trying not to dwell on the tinge of blue still lingering on his son's nails. "You'll be alright."

"Dad," Hiccup croaks, sounding as young as Stoick feels old, but whatever he's about to say is cut off by another fit of coughing. Stoick is prepared this time, coaxing Hiccup's hands away from his mouth and ever so carefully letting Hiccup cough into the heat of the rag instead. Toothless' chin comes to rest on Hiccup's lap, earning a desperate, pained moan from his son's dry lips, and Stoick splays a hand over Hiccup's spine.

It's minutes upon minutes of this: Hiccup, curling into himself, chest rattling painfully as he spits and coughs into the rag, stained mucus erupting from his throat. Sometime by the last fit, the door slams open, and footsteps echo on the landing.

"Odin's beard," Gobber mutters, but Gothi pays him no mind, pushing him out of the way to get to Stoick. Stoick shifts only slightly, Hiccup's coughing settling enough to let him breathe, and he leans against Stoick, drained of energy and nearly sobbing. Stoick has no time to mourn.

Gothi is nothing if not efficient. She grabs the used cloth, inspecting it, Hiccup's throat offering a noise of gurgled protest; Gothi shushes him with a simple look, and he merely slumps back against Stoick's side. It can't be comfortable, this awkward position, and Stoick has no reputation to uphold with the those in the room, so he adjusts: back against the headboard of Hiccup's wooden bed, arm around his son, and Hiccup's head pillowed against his chest. It does something for his son, because his breathing evens just a bit.

She tosses the cloth to Gobber, who narrowly misses, and holds up a finger before moving onto Hiccup; she listens to his lungs once again, a grave shadow under her eyes as she pulls away, though Hiccup doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't fight when her fingers prod his lips, tinged with remnants of cough and blood and cold. When she throws the sand on the floor of his room, Stoick's already well aware of what she's going to tell them.

"The infection is spreading," Gobber confirms, sighing. Gothi's scribbling is frantic but controlled, a technique Stoick could never grasp. "The rattling… getting worse. Treat the fever… cough…"

Of course it's getting worse.

Gothi disappears downstairs with Gobber, leaving Stoick with his half-conscious boy; Toothless won't leave his side, understanding so clear in the dragon's eyes, Stoick is once again taken aback at the intelligence of this creature. Hiccup shifts, mumbling something Stoick doesn't quite pick up, but his hands are scrabbling for purchase against his leg and it clicks—he's sore.

"Here," Stoick says quietly, laying Hiccup back against his pillow. This seems to annoy him, but Stoick just chuckles, working at the ropes of his son's leg and untying the prosthetic, popping it free from his stump and setting it next to the bed. Some of the tension from Hiccup's face drains away, though beads of sweat still cling to his temples, the rage of fever threatening to take him under.

Though his throat is raw, Hiccup manages, "Still say s'a cold," Stoick bellowing a laugh at the thoroughly offended look on his son's pale face.

"Aye, of course you do." Stoick scratches at Hiccup's scalp, a gesture he hasn't done since the boy had been five, and Hiccup's eyes flutter shut for a moment. "Colds don't have you coughing up bits of your lung, Hiccup."

"Twins would find that cool," he points out, the most he's said since yesterday, but Stoick can tell it takes it out of him. Hiccup inhales sharply, grimacing, and Stoick prepares for another coughing fit—one that, thankfully, doesn't come. Rather, he protectively cocoons his stomach, as though willing it away, and Stoick knows what's coming before Hiccup.

"Up," he grunts, lifting his son off the bed and onto the floor, Hiccup dry-heaving and struggling. Stoick's aware there's little left in him to throw up, and Hiccup shudders as his body tries relentlessly despite this. When Gothi appears in the door with a mug of water and a stick of sharpened wood, Stoick thanks the gods that he is not alone for this, though he'll take that to Valhalla.

Gothi sets her staff gently on the ground next to Hiccup, cupping his chin once a break in the heaving shows itself, and pours a few drops into his mouth. Satisfied with that, she nods to Stoick, who pulls Hiccup back against him, only hoping that Hiccup can keep it down as Gothi prods the dip in elbow with the wood, breaking skin and vein to allow the blood to flow. She has a bowl ready, and Hiccup groans, shying away from the pain and trying not to throw up the water, and he truly does feel for his son.

He'll admit: it's much easier with his boy being fifteen rather than five.

The three of them sit, Toothless a protective shadow where he's perched near the bed, and Hiccup's breathing eventually evens out, the clench of nausea easing into something resembling peace. Gothi nods her approval, quickly wrapping his arm with gauze and tying it off before reaching for her staff and the used bowl. She says nothing, only giving Stoick a nod to indicate she's done all she can, and it's not quite relief that settles into the hollows of his bones.

Knees beginning to ache, Stoick scoops Hiccup back up and places him carefully onto his bed, Hiccup's face a mess of sweat and bile and drops of blood. He can hear Gobber puttering downstairs, the swing of a staff, so he leaves his son in the care of Toothless with a quiet, "Keep him safe," and heads for the kitchen.

The wooded floor has a thin layer of sand, Gothi's runes erased and re-written with Gobber looking worse for wear, and Stoick takes a heavy seat in the chair by the fire pit. Gothi's sympathetic, tapping his shoulder lightly with her staff, and he offers a grim, half-hearted smile.

"Thank you," he murmurs, genuine and exhausted. "I haven't seen him this ill since…"

She nods, directing his attention to the display of vials on the table, varying colours and textures. None look particularly appetizing, but he recognizes most of them: ribwort, lupin, corn-cockles. Willow bark. In tightly wound bunches are dill and green rue, and a wooden jar of beeswax. Most of his medicinal knowledge comes from Valka—what little he can remember—but the sight of so much micromanaging is a tad overwhelming, and Stoick rubs the ache within the back of his neck.

With that, however, she takes her leave. Stoick waves her off, Gothi slipping parchments into Gobber's hand at the door, and if it wasn't only mid-day, Stoick would risk bed.

"Instructions," Gobber explains cheerily, tossing the paper onto the table. Runes translated into Gobber's messy Norse, mostly for tonics and mixtures, but with care for spiked fevers. "Poor lad's in for it."

Stoick sighs ruefully, the words staring back at him yet doing little to ease his anxiety. "Indeed, he is."

* * *

Gobber keeps his word, taking a watch over Hiccup while Stoick heads out to survey the village.

Not much needs to be done. Everyone's taken his word, keeping to their huts due to the frigid drop of temperature, and though they've been spared any more snow for the day, there's a darkness on the horizon that Stoick warily eyes. By the time mid-afternoon comes and goes, Stoick has dealt with four missing (and subsequently found) sheep, a livid Sven, Hoark's buried yak furs (which Stoick is almost entirely sure is a result of the Thorston twins, _not_ the snow), and finally, come the evening: the teens curiosity about his son.

"Is he alive?" is Tuffnut's approach to it, and Stoick debates house arrest. "'Cause he left Toothless to me."

"Actually, he left Toothless to _me_," Snotlout argues, Stoick sighing and pinching his nose. "I'm his cousin, therefore _I_ get him."

"Can you guys shut up?" Astrid, rolling her eyes with such a ferocity that Fishlegs slinks back, adds, "We know he's sick. How bad is it, sir?"

They've started to amass a gathering, those having heard the shouts of Tuffnut and Snotlout coming out to see what the theatrics are about, and Stoick is far, far too tired for this. His son is ill—coughing up blood and throwing up!—and here Stoick stands, his friends…

Well, being his friends. Stoick can't fault them for that.

"He'll be fine," he assures them, the twins sharing a look Stoick tries in vain to ignore. Despite their oddities, the lot of them, they care. "But he _is_ ill. Like I've said: when he's up for visitors, you'll be the first to know, alright?"

"But he's not actually dying, right?" Snotlout asks, and Stoick shakes his head.

"No, he is not dying."

A screech, belonging to only one cankerous old man on this island, calls out, "But he'll kill the rest of us!"

_Odin help me._

* * *

Mildew will _not_ go near his son while he's ill. Not as long as Stoick is breathing.

* * *

By the time he's back home, Stoick is ready to sleep—chair, bed, floor. It doesn't matter.

The thought is immediately lost, the sound of retching meeting his ears as soon as his helmet's off; he climbs the stairs three at a time, Gobber's miserable look his greeting as he holds a bucket under Hiccup. Judging by the pallor of his son's face, not much has improved in the few hours Stoick has been out, and Gobber simply says, "Did one more round of blood, but he hasn't been able to keep anythin' down."

"Fever?" Stoick asks, Hiccup shivering as he heaves. Nothing comes out. A glance in the bucket shows nothing but bitter acid and the water they've tried to hydrate him with.

"'Bout the same," Gobber explains, Stoick taking over while Gobber stretches. Toothless paces by the bed, not nearly as frantic as earlier, yet clearly on that cusp of worry. "The dragon here's been a help. Warmin' up the water, keepin' the lad calm."

That doesn't surprise Stoick at all, but it _is_ a relief to know that his son's companion is more of a help—one of Stoick's biggest concerns had been Toothless getting in the way.

"Thank you, Gobber," he says sincerely, palming at Hiccup's heated forehead. Hiccup shudders, but the nausea seems to have run its course as he drops his head against his pillow.

"This… is dumb," he mumbles, a hand blindly searching for something, and Stoick realizes belatedly it's for Toothless; the dragon has no hesitation, nosing his way into Hiccup's palm almost immediately. "Stupid body. Stupid… immunity…"

Stoick and Gobber both chuckle at that, the first breakthrough of Hiccup they've seen in the past day or so, and Hiccup shoots them both a feverish glare. There's not much heat behind it, though Stoick can tell he's attempting, and he places a hand over his son's small one in comfort.

Gobber, ever a voice of reason, says happily, "Don't worry, Hiccup. We've all been in yer shoe, gettin' smacked with a bug."

"Can't smack this bug," Hiccup points out grumpily, Toothless warbling in agreement and what Stoick thinks might be offense—leave it to the Night Fury to be personally attacked at the idea that he can't protect Hiccup from an illness.

Leave it to Stoick to understand _exactly_ how that feels on one's chest.

"Alright, enough of you two." He looks pointedly at Gobber, the man about to start a sass-war with his sick son, and Gobber laughs in amusement but ceases nonetheless. Hiccup mumbles something under his breath that Stoick chooses to ignore, instead motioning for Gobber to follow him downstairs while Hiccup and Toothless converse in whatever strange language the two of them have picked up between them.

"Threw up three times," Gobber says before Stoick can ask, immediately upon the landing. Stoick mulls this over, briefly glancing at the instructions laid out on table before hooking the pot over the cooking hearth. "Bled him once, seemed to make 'im feel better for a time. Gave some mint for the cough 'n' he hasn't had an attack since, but he _has_ been clearin' his throat an awful lot."

"It'll get worse," Stoick continues for him, grinding up the corn-cockles and lupin. "Has he kept any water down?"

Gobber hobbles over, checking the water and, apparently deeming it boiling enough, chucking in a handful of bishop's wort. "Not much. Did for an hour or so, but came up just as quick followin' that."

Stoick, in a moment of weakness only Val and Gobber have seen, grips the wood of the counter and exhales shakily. Hiccup _will_ be fine, because Hiccup has survived falling hundreds of feet in the air, a blow to the head from a monstrous dragon, has survived _losing a leg_ while they were all but stranded on Helheim. He's survived being sick with this before, smaller and younger and so, so much weaker, yet every sign he's showing is one that has taken newborns, children, and the elderly in a matter of _hours_.

"Stoick," Gobber says quietly, a hand on his shoulder. "The lad is stubborn. This won't be what takes him."

"No," he agrees, standing straight and rolling out his shoulders; the tonic won't mix itself, and it still has to stand. "No, it won't."

* * *

_Blistering heat._

_A bludgeon—tail made for bludgeoning. _

_Meatlug? No. That couldn_'_t be right. _

_The heat—not of a Gronckle. Hotter. Darker. Coalescing. All-consuming. _

_A pillar, burning; not a Monstrous Nightmare__'s heat. Not Hookfang. Still not right. _

_Someone is screaming. It's_ _familiar. He has somewhere to be, somewhere__… the cove. The cove. A dragon. His dragon. _

_"—wouldn't kill a dragon." _

_"…no, NO—"_

_A bludgeon. A tail made for bludgeoning. A blistering, all-consuming heat. The choke of smoke and embers, the lick of flames, the maw of a dying beast, someone is screaming, his lungs are aching—_

_"…Hiccup?"_

"Hiccup!"

He screams, clutching at his chest, trying to breathe through the smoke and fire that surrounds him—if he doesn't, then he and Toothless will both fall, and Toothless won't stand a chance. The tail is ruined, but maybe, just maybe—

"_Hiccup_," and that's strange, because that's his dad, he shouldn't—if he's here, but that means—

"Stop, it's alright." Hiccup catches himself on a sob, a wretched thing ripped from somewhere deep, because all he can see is the Death's body, the half-dead thing's tail swinging down and smashing into him while Toothless is diving. He's somewhat aware that he can't stop shaking, that there are arms around him and a cold, wet snout is buried in his neck, that he's still trying to scream but it's a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

_—all-consuming heat?_

"S'hot," he cries, pushing away the heat. The arms leave him and he wants them back, something like safety and protection, and he mumbles something that he can't even understand himself. Too much fire. He's not even sure what's on fire, but _something _is and oh, gods, he can't escape—

"Alright now, hush," and that's his dad again, so Hiccup focuses on that. "It's alright. You're home."

There's a chirp somewhere beside him, or maybe behind him, and Hiccup sobs because that's Toothless, they're both _okay_.

"Was…" he tries, fight draining out of him. "It…?"

"A nightmare," his dad confirms. It's too dark for Hiccup to make out what he's doing, but there's a clatter and a slosh of something wet, and then he's suddenly being lifted off the bed. It isn't long before he's being lowered into an empty tub, and he's too tired to argue about dignity or embarrassment or _whatever_. He's not even sure what time it is, or what day it is. He just wants to go back to sleep, though the threat of plagued dreams puts him off.

"You're fevered," his dad explains, and Hiccup lolls his head back, his skull meeting the hide of Toothless, his dragon sitting perched protectively behind the basin. Hiccup laughs, a delirious sound even to his own ears, but Toothless merely licks his cheek and coos.

"Hi, bud," he whispers, a shaky hand reaching out for Toothless' snout. "Dreamed… about her. Didn't make it."

Toothless croons miserably, nuzzling his hand before moving on to the hollowed space of his collarbones, where his shoulder and neck meet. It's enough to calm the race of his heart, the fear that has yet to leave him, and his dad's presence is calming when he brings the basin of water over.

"You and Toothless are both safe," he says, and Hiccup appreciates it more than words can express. In this moment, here, Hiccup doesn't have it in himself to be ashamed of needing his father. "Right now, we need to try and break your fever."

His tunic is tugged over his head, and then the water is being poured into the tub and it's tepid and _warm_ and Hiccup shivers. It's too hot and too cold all at once, the water an uncomfortable touch against his skin, and he moans into Toothless' neck as his dad carefully pats down his arms.

"It's not bath day," he grumbles, Toothless licking incessantly at his hair. His dad laughs quietly, dipping the cloth back in the water and rinsing off Hiccup's chest.

"You take more baths than anyone in this village," his father argues, shooing Toothless away momentarily. Hiccup mourns the contact, but it's less than a second before Toothless is nuzzling at the other side of his neck. "I'd imagine you don't want to smell of your own sick longer than necessary."

"Can't smell anything," Hiccup mumbles, sniffling to prove his point. He probably sounds childish, but if his dad notices, he says nothing; instead, he simply washes Hiccup down, the chill of the water slowly chasing away the heat Hiccup had awoken wrapped in.

The Red Death can't reach them here; even in his fevered state, he holds onto that.

"Your hair is…" his dad begins, obviously trying to say 'disgusting' without insulting either him or Toothless, and Hiccup snorts, Toothless making a point of tonguing at the back of his head. "Yes, thank you, dragon."

"In my chest," he explains, glaring at the overgrown reptile with betrayal. He can _feel_ the sticky, cooling saliva in his hair, and it _is_ disgusting, but it's also Toothless. "Small bundle. It's soap. Only thing that works."

His dad maneuvers to the chest, Toothless getting in what few treasonous licks he can before he's shooed away once again, and Hiccup wrinkles his nose and laughs before he's freed from the onslaught of Night Fury tongue.

"What is this?" his dad asks, kneeling back down and examining the tiny, gray brick of soap. "We don't make soap like this."

Hiccup shakes his head, leaning over the edge of the basin and wiping at his nose in misery. "S'charcoal burnt by Hookfang. Monstrous Nightmare ash. When it's mixed…"

He trails off, a yawn escaping him, and his dad pats his head.

"…right," he continues groggily. "Mixed with sheep wool oil. Gets out gross stuff. Like _someone's_ gross saliva."

Toothless gives a gummy laugh, Hiccup unable to hold back the grin it brings to his own lips at the sight; his dad just shakes his head, and Hiccup quickly adds, "It stains hands. Not permanently. Few days. Haven't… solved that yet…"

His dad hums, turning the brick over in his hands.

"Give me a moment," he says, disappearing downstairs, and Hiccup shrugs at Toothless. There's not much he can do—he's down a leg and the majority of his energy, and his remaining limbs won't hold his weight if he tried. He settles with a battle of wills with Toothless, the two of them engaged in staring, and it's only broken when his dad returns, a mug of liquid in his hand.

"Yak's milk," he says as way of explanation. "Might not work, but we'll see."

Hiccup doesn't ask, just closes his eyes as fresh, warm water is dumped over his head. A moment of panic hits him, the briefest thought of drowning once again, the maw of death, but Toothless' snout nudging his spine and his dad rubbing at his shoulder keeps him grounded. His dad dips his hand into the milk, then lathers up the soap, and Hiccup understands—a means of avoiding the stain of ash. He'll have to try it when his entire body isn't trying to destroy itself.

"Your mother used to do this," his dad says, barely above a whisper. Hiccup blinks, desperate to hold onto that as soap is worked into the end strands of his hair. "The yak's milk. When you were a baby. Had a full head of hair, even as a newborn."

He's so, so tired, and the water is cold and his dad's hand in his hair is soft and Toothless is sturdy behind him, and Hiccup kind of wants to cry. He's not sure if it's the fever, or if it's the fact that they rarely talk about his mom, but his chest hurts in more ways than one; his dad rinses his hair out and Hiccup chokes on a sob, a cough catching in his throat.

"S-sorry," he mumbles, teeth chattering, not sure why but—something is wrong. Not sure what, but _something_. He's being wrapped in furs, placed gently on the floor with Toothless, and his dad is gone once again. He only has to wonder for half a second, the sound of his bed being dragged and lugged into the air and down the steps, a feat Hiccup still can't wrap his mind around, and Toothless croons and tucks him into the protective cocoon of his wings.

"You're still burning up." He's not sure when his dad came back, but Hiccup startles, shivering. His dad is methodical as he lifts Hiccup out of the furs and dresses him in a clean tunic, wrapping him back up, lifting him to cart him downstairs. Toothless follows, Hiccup dozing in and out as the hut spins in a whirlwind around him. As soon as he's back on the solid surface of his bed, he can't stop it: he starts coughing, a spluttering of pain and fear that crawls its way out of his chest, and he just wants it to _end_.

He can taste it. The mucus, the blood. The force of it has his head spinning, fingers scraping at his chest to make it _stop_, but someone grabs his hands—his dad, he realizes, and Hiccup _keens_, forcing the last bit of whatever is in his lungs to hack up. By the time he can catch his breath, he's dizzy and exhausted all over again, and a part of him is terrified that if he closes his eyes, he won't wake up.

"Drink," his dad instructs, tipping something into his mouth. Hiccup doesn't fight, the bitter taste of herbs on his tongue making him gag as he swallows. It's quickly chased by water. "Fight this, Hiccup."

"Trying," he sobs, Toothless nosing at his hand until Hiccup's cradling his head limply. His dad grabs his other hand, squeezing gently, and Hiccup refuses to throw up the tonic. He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't care that he's fifteen, that he's trained dragons and lost a leg—he wants his dad, he wants Toothless, and he really, really doesn't want to be alone, not right now. "I don't… dad, please—"

His dad must understand, because he's being lifted again, blankets and furs and all, beyond the kitchen and into his dad's room. It's not quite big enough for the three of them, but his dad eases him onto the bed, tucking him in against the wall. Hiccup curls up, an attempt to get warm, and Toothless doesn't hesitate—he slinks onto the end of the bed, making himself as small as possible, and drapes himself over Hiccup's foot and cocoons into a ball. Hiccup chuckles shakily, his dad climbing onto the edge of the bed, and there really isn't enough room but Hiccup shifts until he's burrowed into his dad's chest, head tucked under his chin, Toothless a blanket over the both of them.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, torn between guilt and shame and comfort, but his dad smooths the back of his damp head, hushing him.

"None of that," he mutters gruffly, pulling the blankets a bit tighter around Hiccup's shivering frame. "You're sick. More importantly, you're my son. Never apologize for this."

Hiccup falls asleep to two heartbeats, his own getting lost somewhere within the rattle of his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

**quick note:** thank you, again, to everyone who's following/favouriting/leaving feedback! i love y'all.

this is the worse before it gets better, y'all. some more father/son bonding, lots of toothless, some good ol' gobber, and astrid & snotlout make an appearance (and will be in the next chapter). stoick loves his son! i will die for this! it'll get better from here on out.

if anyone is interested (i personally strongly dislike my writing so feel free to ignore lmao) i'm actually working on a multi-chap fic with hiccup growing up, and what i reference through here will eventually be included. along with, like, 50x more fluff & humour & hurt/comfort of the non-sick variety! it's posted on my page.

warnings for chapter: vomiting, bad, bad fever, implied ptsd, panic attack, coughing + mucus/blood. hiccup is very, very sick.

* * *

By some miracle, Hiccup doesn't wake through the night.

Stoick doesn't sleep. Every few hours, he wakes, careful not to jostle his son too much as he eases some water down his throat. Hiccup barely stirs; after every drink, he merely settles back against Stoick, as though he had never been disturbed in the first place. Toothless keeps a protective watch over the both of them, ready to bolt for either Gobber or Gothi should Stoick ask for it, and it's a comfort that Stoick will not voice to anyone.

They make it through the night without Hiccup expelling the water, but his lungs rattle with each breath, his body a traitorous thing. What little sleep Stoick manages to acquire is plagued by a restlessness that comes with Hiccup's harsh, wispy coughing, mingling with the walls as they settle throughout the night. It's not the most comfortable sleep he's ever had, but Hiccup never strays from his position on Stoick's chest, caught between him and the wall and the blanket that is Toothless.

Here—like this—Hiccup is _safe_.

However, come morning, Stoick has to crawl out from his son's clinging limbs, bony hands clutching tightly to his beard. It causes such a stark ache in his chest—Hiccup had found fascination with his hair as a babe, and even now, a gangly teenager, he's still so _small. _The knot of tight muscle in the base of his spine is begging for freedom, though, and while Hiccup needs all the sleep his body will allow him, Stoick has to get up.

Hiccup denies him this, tugging particularly hard on his beard as Stoick begins his task.

_For Odin_ _'s sake._

Toothless chirps awake, watching with half-lidded eyes from his sprawled out position over the bed as Stoick manages to ease his son's hands out of his hair. The dragon looks amused, not the slightest bit chagrined that he became an oversized blanket in the middle of the night, and Stoick rolls his eyes as Hiccup sniffles and scoots closer to Stoick's retreating form.

Toothless laughs, gummy mouth mocking him.

"Quiet, you," Stoick snaps, as though he has two sons. He supposes he does, now. "Come here."

Toothless tilts his head curiously, but does as he's beckoned, inching forward towards Stoick. Hiccup groans but doesn't wake, and Stoick directs the dragon to take up Stoick's empty space as he carefully eases his son's cold fingers out of his beard. His nails are still tinged blue, a note he'll have to make to Gothi, and though Hiccup seems displeased with this, Stoick is quick to place his boy's hands on Toothless' hide.

Hiccup settles.

Toothless, having already understood, merely tucks his own limbs under his belly, tail over Hiccup's legs. Leave it to his son to tame the most dangerous dragon known to Viking-kind, and this dragon turn out to be… well, Toothless.

That taken care of, he gives a nod to the beast to watch over his son and heads into the kitchen, scraping the flint to light the cooking hearth. Hiccup will need something in his stomach today, and Stoick debates between stewing a bone broth or a simpler yak's meat broth. Hiccup loathes both, but at this point, his opinion means little, though to voice that out loud would probably rouse the boy into consciousness. It's only the stir of sunrise, which leaves him the morning to test Hiccup's stomach with simple water, so he has plenty of time to brew—bone broth, then. A feat, but Hiccup's condition has yet to improve, and it's a very, very small price to pay.

It's a recipe passed down from Val's side of the family. He digs out a larger pot, setting it on the table before sending a quick thanks to the gods that he had the foresight to spare the bones from dinner a few nights prior. He grabs the smaller pot holding the discarded bones, and dumps them without hesitation, followed closely by a decent sized amount of water for boiling.

There's a sniffle from the bedroom, chased by a dragon's sleepy huff.

He might not be the greatest cook, but if he can get Hiccup to keep something down, he'll consider it a victory. He focuses: the dicing of an onion, as fine as possible; the wild celery, more for flavour; a pinch of pepper. He places the pot on the hook, letting it stew over the heat, and pours a small amount of the dried bishop's wort into the water, an effort to manage Hiccup's fever.

All that remains is to wait.

Stoick, having need for his own sustenance, settles for a simple meal of porridge, tapping the barrel for a mug of mead. The water has already begun to boil, leaving the kitchen with a hefty smell of herbs and spices, and that seems to be enough to get Hiccup's attention, a weak grumble from the room that has Stoick to his feet in an instant.

He brings with him a mug of fresh water, Hiccup sitting up with a hand to his head and looking worse for wear, and Stoick knows the boy is barely lucid. Toothless is back on the floor, crooning at Hiccup with worry, and Stoick takes a seat on the edge of the bed and palms at his son's forehead—much warmer than last night. Not nearly a break in the fever, and Hiccup's eyes are unfocused and confused.

"Dad," he mumbles, leaning forward. Stoick catches him with one arm easily, tucking him against his side. "Feels… hot."

"Aye." He tips the mug towards his son's lips, only allowing for a few drops. Hiccup drinks greedily, grimacing at what must be a rather disgusting film in his mouth. "Slow. We'll see if you can keep that down."

Hiccup nods, though Stoick has doubts about whether or not Hiccup understands what's happening. Toothless wanders over, nudging at Hiccup's good knee, and his son reaches out an unsteady hand to pet Toothless' head. Everything about Hiccup is unsteady.

"Don't feel good," Hiccup says weakly, lurching forward. Stoick moves to get them both off the bed, chastising himself for not having a bucket ready, but as he holds his son over the floor, Hiccup merely heaves. He refuses to vomit. Stoick's torn between pride and frustration at his son's unwavering stubbornness, because it's clearly causing him an indescribable amount of pain, and all Stoick can do is smooth a hand over the bumps of Hiccup's spine and ease him through it.

Once the nausea seems to pass, Hiccup trembling and sweating, he manages a meager, "D-dad… too hot…"

He has a fever; of course he's warm. Stoick feels the skin of his forehead again regardless, surprised to find him burning up further, and curses under his breath as Toothless croons in worry.

"Toothless, find Gobber and bring him here," he instructs, the dragon nodding in understanding once before disappearing through the door. Stoick doesn't have time to analyze that, to wonder about this beast. He lifts Hiccup back onto the bed, positioning him on his side in case of sickness once again, and retreats upstairs to grab the basin from last night. He dumps it outside, the chill of the air a relief from the illness bleeding into the walls of their hut, and fills it back up with fresh water from the barrel. Warm, as to not shock his son's system, though he wishes he could provide more relief. He comes back in, setting the basin by the stairs, and finds Hiccup exactly where he left him: curled on his side, miserable and pale and so very, very sick.

Hiccup sniffs, a fist swiping at his nose as Stoick lifts him back out of the bed. If he wasn't in danger of his demise, Stoick might find it endearing, and yet. He grabs one of the thinner blankets from the bed, swathing Hiccup in it as he goes; Hiccup complains, arms tucked away by the cocoon, but Stoick hushes him as he lowers his son into the basin of tepid water.

He's known men's minds to break from fever. He won't allow it.

"Hiccup," he says quietly, a tired gaze meeting his own, "where are you, son?"

Hiccup blinks slowly, and Stoick thinks he might fall back asleep; he cradles Hiccup's head with his arm, supporting his son in the water.

"Think… home," he mumbles, sweat and water beading his skin. "Too hot. For Berk."

Stoick chuckles at that—even in sickness, his son is a treat.

"It's still as cold as winter out there," Stoick assures him, carding his hand through Hiccup's hair. It's a softer texture now, thanks to that soap; it's left the ends a bit curled, wispy, and Stoick is once again left stunned at his boy's ingenuity, the ways in which his mind works.

The front door bursts open, a black mass bolting through and nosing at Stoick before he can blink, and Gobber is quick to follow and close the door, the moment quickly broken. Toothless growls sadly, Hiccup opening his eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of his dragon before deeming that too taxing on his body, and Stoick pauses in his ministrations to give Toothless a quick pet.

"Dragon nearly took down my forge," Gobber says, rolling out his shoulders. He makes his way to the kitchen table, already digging out what Stoick needs him to, and words can't express his gratitude. "Scared the livin' daylights outta Ack."

Stoick glances at Toothless, the beast sitting perfect beside the basin with wide, innocent eyes, and Stoick rolls his own.

"Can't fool me, dragon," he says, returning to his son's hair. It keeps Hiccup calm. He turns to Gobber, says quietly, "I suppose we can't fault him. He's as worried as the rest of us."

Gobber hums, bringing over a mug of hot water with bits of bishop's wort. Not brewed—he'll have to chew, especially with a fever of this severity.

"The kids saw him," Gobber explains, lifting Hiccup's chin and tilting his head. "They know somethin' serious is up."

It was bound to happen eventually. Hiccup tries to fight Gobber, but with what little strength he has, he's overpowered, the bitter water and dried flowers being eased into his mouth, a gentle hand helping him to chew. Stoick's hand doesn't leave his hair, now faced with _another_ dilemma: quelling the inevitability of Hiccup's friends and their worries.

"Atta boy," Gobber mutters, Hiccup spluttering as he swallows. "I know, it's disgustin'. Hate this stuff."

"Tastes as bitter as dirt," Stoick agrees, his own hand dipping into the water and coming back up to wet Hiccup's neck, the back of his head. "Does the trick, though."

Hiccup purses his lips together, burying his head into Stoick's shoulder, mumbling something about a cove.

"The lad's delirious," Gobber says, sighing as he disposes of the mug in the bucket by the door. Another thing to burn. "Haven't seen him this bad since he and Snotlout both had Eel Pox."

Stoick's chuckle is devoid of humour; that time had been trying, but amusing nonetheless, the two of them hell on four feet, young and feverish and fighting tooth and nail against both Stoick and Spitelout. Then, it was the only time Stoick had seen the two of them get along; now, it's more common than not, Snotlout's worry for his son's wellbeing still fresh in his mind.

"He's having nightmares again," Stoick says gruffly, dragging the water over Hiccup's chest. The blanket is soaked with it. "Similar to the ones after we brought him back from Helheim."

Gobber makes a noise of understanding, puttering around the kitchen, checking on the broth. The water in the tub has grown cold, but Hiccup's skin is still hot to the touch, cheeks flushed with the illness in his body.

"…cove," Hiccup mumbles again, a disjointed thought Stoick can't pinpoint. Toothless seems to pick up on it, growling in misery as he shoves his snout in Hiccup's neck gently, but even that does little to bring Hiccup back. "He can't… don't…"

"It's alright," Stoick tells him, adopting the mantra he's been breathing the past few days—what feels like weeks, at this point. Hiccup grimaces, pulling away, and Stoick loosens the blanket a bit, allowing Hiccup room to move. He's shivering, teeth chattering and eyes screwed shut, and Stoick lifts him from the tub, drenched blanket and all.

"Here," Gobber offers, helping Stoick to untangle Hiccup from the blanket and his wet tunic, getting him wrapped up in dry furs. "He hasn't changed much, has 'e? Can't stay warm, can't stay cool, even with a fever."

Stoick knows that all too well. "His fever's been spiking all night."

"The Ingermans might have some leftover soup, since the broth's gonna take another hour or two," Gobber says, tossing the blanket and tunic in with the discarded mug. Hiccup, either unaware or uncaring of his current audience, tucks into Stoick's arms, Gobber grinning at the sight. Stoick narrows his eyes in open defiance. "Ya, ya, I'm goin'."

Gobber hobbles his way out, and with that done—and knowing Hiccup won't want to be alone—Stoick beckons Toothless over.

"Think you can handle being a bed for a day?" he asks, Toothless shaking out his wings in response. He folds himself into a crooked ball against the wall by the stairs, a perfect shape for Hiccup to rest against, and Stoick should have thought of this before.

Toothless can keep Hiccup warm if need be, or take what little heat away he can. He can regulate as best a dragon is able, which is what Hiccup needs right now, and Stoick lays his palm over Toothless' flank.

"Thank you," and he means it, watching his only son and this creature protecting him with every scale and claw and tooth.

The croon he gets in answer is one of mourning.

* * *

It takes hours.

Stoick places Spitelout in temporary charge, explaining the situation, and his brother looks grave at the news. There's no use hiding it; Mildew has spread rumours among the people, and they've started leaving gifts at his step. Mostly soups and broths, along with runic charms and promises of prayers. No one, aside from Mildew, is screaming about quarantining his son, and for that, Stoick is grateful.

For all intents and purposes, Hiccup _is_ quarantined.

Gobber takes care of the soiled items, burning the used dishes and clothes to ensure as little is spread as possible. Stoick spends most of the day dampening rags and trying to break Hiccup's fever, while spooning him water and broth. Hiccup sleeps through most of it, waking up periodically to hack through bouts of coughing; no more blood comes up, just phlegm. He even manages to go six entire hours without retching, a sign from the gods, and on the seventh hour—when his body rebels and heaves with force—only a bit of the yak's meat from the Ingermans' soup comes up.

It's a miracle, albeit a small one.

He spends an awful lot of time dreaming, mumbling about the cove and Toothless and cliffs, and Stoick will ask him about it when he's in a better state; Toothless simply looks sad, a feat for the dragon. By the time the sun has receded back to the horizon and Gobber has retired home for the night, Hiccup's fever finally, _finally_ breaks.

"Oh, gods," his son breathes, tears springing to his eyes as a hand comes to rub his temple, and Stoick lurches from his chair next to the bed where he had been keeping watch. Hiccup's eyes, shadowed by bruises, are squinting against the light. "_Ow_, my head—gods, ow, ow…"

Stoick, more relieved than anything, blows out one of the candles on the table.

"Thanks," Hiccup says meekly, throat raw. "Oh, okay, this… did I fall again…?"

"Again?" Stoick wonders, briefly, about the stunts his son pulls in the air—he's seen enough of them to cast him into early retirement for the sake of his heart, but Hiccup is nothing if not his mother's stubbornness, and Stoick would be lying if he said he didn't worry about his son hiding injuries.

Hiccup simply shrugs. "Last fly ended in a tree," he explains, as though that's completely acceptable. Stoick will have _words_ later.

For now: "You've had a fever all day, son. How are you feeling?"

"Think Hookfang spit me out," he grumbles, rubbing at his eyes violently, and Stoick leaves him for a moment to wet a clean rag. Upon returning, Hiccup is locked into a staring contest with Toothless once again.

"What exactly does this accomplish?" Stoick asks, guiding Hiccup back down and laying the rag over Hiccup's forehead. Toothless snorts, huffing out a dragon-laugh, and Hiccup waves a hand in his general direction.

"We've had a… competition going," Hiccup explains tiredly, each breath a laboured thing. "Staring. Toothless is winning."

Stoick shakes his head, choosing not to comment on the silliness of it all. If it makes his son happy—which it very obviously does—then the two of them can have a go at this staring competition all they like, so long as it doesn't require Hiccup to leave the bed. Disappearing once again, Stoick returns with a jar and a mug of ale, Hiccup wrinkling his nose at both. _That's_ his son.

"Don't want to," Hiccup says immediately, pulling the blankets up to his chin. "I'm feeling… better. Already."

"You can barely speak," Stoick points out, uncorking the jar. The _pop_ has Hiccup wincing, further proving Stoick's point, and he dips his thumb in the oil before smearing it on Hiccup's temple. "You've managed to have every symptom, Hiccup. Only you."

His son goes quiet at that, and Stoick bites back a sigh; treading this territory has always been dangerous between them, but it's gotten much easier in the passing months, though speaking so openly has never been Stoick's stronger suit. It was better left to Val—and how that leaves him aching so.

"Sorry," Hiccup whispers, his hands idly fiddling with the blanket, a gesture Stoick knows all too well. He smears the boy's other temple, corks the jar, and sets it on the table. Hiccup is lucid and awake, even if only for now, and so Stoick takes a seat on the edge of the bed and hands him the mug of ale, which Hiccup takes obediently.

"There's nothing to apologize for," Stoick begins, resting his hand on Hiccup's knee through the blanket. "You're _sick_. It happens. It'd take a fool to blame someone for that."

Hiccup doesn't meet his eyes, staring into the mug as though it'll drink itself when he says quietly, "Figured I'd outgrow this by now."

"Your mother never outgrew this."

At that, Hiccup's gaze snaps up, eyes wide and seeking; a pang of regret rings within his chest, and he vows to speak more of this later, of Valka—for Hiccup's sake.

"She was a frequent fever, as Gothi called her," Stoick explains, nudging the bottom of the mug to get Hiccup to drink. He rolls his eyes, but complies nonetheless, especially as Toothless comes to join them on the bed, backing Stoick up. A strange duo, the two of them make, but if they can get Hiccup to cooperate, he's not complaining. "Fell sick often with fevers and the cold, much like you. Gothi tells us it's because of her being brought into this world early, as were you_._"

"Bet she never got _this_ sick," Hiccup mutters, glaring at the ale yet taking another swig. Stoick can smell the mint, and though it must burn Hiccup's senses, it'll do him more good than harm.

"Aye, by the time she was of fighting age, she was rarely sick," Stoick agrees, the twinge of loss dulled by the company of his son: real and alive and breathing. "But when she _was_, it was a fight for her life. Where do you think you get this from, Hiccup?"

"Loki," Hiccup says so seriously, Stoick _laughs_, Toothless huffing at his rider. "What—hey! I'm serious, okay, the gods find amusement in my torment."

Toothless slaps him with an ear, Stoick breaking the two of them up gently as he says, "Alright, alright, none of that. The gods do not find amusement in your torment, Hiccup. That'd be best saved for the twins."

Hiccup contemplates this for a moment, before nodding in grave agreement.

"Yeah," he says, finishing off the ale and shuddering. "Ugh, _ew. _Tuff apparently sings when he's sick, so I'm good with this trade-off."

"The village is spared," Stoick deadpans, taking the empty mug and setting it aside. There's a bit of colour returning to Hiccup's cheeks, but his eyes are still glassy, and as he lays back against the pillow, the rattle in his chest is far more pronounced. A struggle to breathe. The fever has broken, but little else has improved.

"Hey, dad?" Hiccup asks, sparing Stoick further dwelling. Stoick hums his attention, urging his son to continue. "D'you think…"

He trails off, staring up at the ceiling, chewing his bottom lip. Whatever is bothering him has been for quite some time.

"I think," Stoick says instead, standing up and tucking Hiccup in amongst the blankets, "that you need to rest."

Toothless gives a massive yawn at this, his exaggerated maw causing Hiccup to snort in laughter, and Stoick lets the two of them settle properly in his bed. Whatever room is leftover will have to make due, or if Hiccup doesn't need him tonight, he'll take up home on either Hiccup's bed or the chair.

"I smell like dill," Hiccup complains, bundling up and staring up at Stoick with offended, betrayed eyes. "I hate this stuff. You know I hate this stuff."

"Do you still have a headache?"

"Well—"

"Is it as bad as it was when you _woke_?"

Hiccup sighs, the glare disappearing as quick as it came. "No, but I still hate it."

"Go to sleep," Stoick says, forgoing the usual argument about medicinal herbs retrieving the damp cloth from Hiccup's head. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

There's a strange look of fear on his son's face, one of hesitation and contemplation, and Stoick wonders if this is the question Hiccup has been toying with. He should know by now that he can ask whatever he'd like—there's no guarantee Stoick will say yes, but no harm in a question. He tells him as much.

"Out with it," he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. Hiccup screams defiance and anxiety. "Whatever it is, I'm listening."

"It's dumb," Hiccup argues, and if he curls in on himself any further, he'll be nothing more than blanket.

"I think I can judge that for myself." Stoick stands tall, patient. Whatever Hiccup wants, it's been weighing on him heavily. "Hiccup. What is it?"

Suddenly, in a rushed, jumble of words that Stoick has to spare a moment to decipher: "Idon'twanttobealone."

For how intelligent his son is…

"I mean, Toothless is here," Hiccup continues, oblivious to Stoick's own thoughts. He's on the verge of panicking, radiating guilt and shame. "I'm not really alone, I get that, but… It's stupid, I know, I'm not a kid anymore. You don't have to, I'll be fine—"

"Hiccup," Stoick interrupts before his son can work himself back into a fevered state, "if you want me to stay, you just have to ask."

"Not just…" Hiccup makes an aborted gesture with his hand, nearly getting caught in the blankets, and he swipes angrily at his eyes. "It's stupid! I told you! I just—when I sleep, the nightmares, and I think I'm not gonna wake up, and maybe I won't, or I _will_ and this will all be gone and Toothless will be gone and I just…"

Ah.

Now very worried Hiccup might actually end up fevered again, Stoick climbs back into the bed, Hiccup digging his palms into his eyes to hide what Stoick knows is happening. They can blame it on the sickness for now, though Stoick has a sinking feeling this has been stewing for much, much longer—they haven't had a chance to properly sit down about this since Helheim, since the Red Death, and Hiccup's just a _boy_, of course he's going to have nightmares. He took on a monster, lost a leg for it, nearly his life, and hasn't said a word to anyone about it; Stoick has seen years of battle, has faced man and beast alike, and knows the price one must pay to take a life.

He knows his son's love for dragons.

"It's your turn to listen to me," Stoick starts softly, as carefully as he possibly can. He so desperately wishes for Val for this. Hiccup moans through his teeth, a heartbreaking noise that Toothless croons low and agonized at. "Something tells me that no matter when you wake, your dragon will be there when you do."

Toothless answers this with a whine, licking at Hiccup's hair, earning himself a sob-laugh that tells Stoick he's probably going in the right direction with this. He places a hand on Hiccup's knee—his left, what's left of it.

"None of this will be gone, son. I have been proud of you since the day you came into this world, and I will be proud of you until the day I leave it. What you did for us, for the dragons, the price you paid—that is a price lesser men could only dream of."

"I can't leave him," Hiccup whispers, and the dam breaks, Hiccup outright sobbing. Stoick has no time to prepare himself before Hiccup is launching himself forward into his father, and Stoick wraps his arms around Hiccup's small frame.

Hiccup wears his heart on his sleeve; he has since he was a boy, Stoick knows, despite the boy's adamant arguments to the contrary, the desperation to attain something more, to be what Stoick has always considered him to be—even if it took him longer to acknowledge than he'd like to admit. The problem, Stoick realizes, as Hiccup comes apart, sick and frayed around the edges, is that no one has allowed him to break properly.

Hiccup splutters a string of apologies, warring with himself, and Stoick simply holds him.

"J-just," he tries, though there's a worryingly scratched note to his voice, raw with pain. "If I—w-what if—"

_I think I'm_ _not gonna wake up._

Five years old, and it had taken minutes to get Hiccup breathing again. Stoick does not think about this.

The sobs are punctuated by coughs, and Stoick pulls him back, Hiccup's face stained red with misery and illness; he looks panicked, ashamed, and when Toothless begins licking at Hiccup's cheek, nosing at his neck to try and calm him down, Stoick doesn't hide his relief. Hiccup is frantic, eyes darting between the two of them, but before Stoick can offer any sort of comfort, it begins again: a simple wrench of a noise, an innocent cough, and then Hiccup's face crumples with the fear and agony of the fit that overtakes him.

It's far from pleasant. Stoick lifts him easily, Hiccup and his blankets and his aching coughs in the crook of his arm, on the bend of his knee as his son chokes and tries to breathe. Toothless leaps from the bed, a scaled head resting sadly in Hiccup's lap as Stoick's large hand finds rest against Hiccup's back, the boy's spine folding with each cough. It's an awful noise. The room echoes with it, stale with sweat and blood as Hiccup's hands come away with it, any improvement lost as Hiccup heaves, eyes and nose wet with tears.

"_Dad_," Hiccup sobs, lungs wheezing with the effort, and he breaks out in another fit. Stoick holds him close, reaching with his free hand for the discarded cloth; Hiccup's hands are stained with phlegm and mucus and blood, and Stoick does not panic.

"Toothless," he says carefully, the dragon's eyes snapping at him, "find Gothi and Gobber. Bring them both here. Do not wake anyone else, and be discreet, for Hiccup's sake. Can you do that?"

Toothless, crooning low in absolute understanding, nods once before disappearing into the darkness of the hut.

Stoick detaches himself, at least for the moment. Hiccup is his son, yes, but until Gothi arrives, he is a boy of the village in desperate need of care; he stands, Hiccup groaning in pain, clawing his way through furious coughing as Stoick lays him out on the bed, on his side. He adjusts the blankets, sparing his son's dignity, and retreats quickly into the kitchen to boil water. The rag has to be burned. He'll have Toothless do it once things settle. Now, with the water on, he finds one of the last few cloths they have left and folds it. The water is slow. Hiccup's coughing bleeds through the walls. The front door slams open, though Stoick does not startle.

It's not Toothless with his charges that comes trudging through the door, however—it's two teenagers, staring at him with the same open defiance Hiccup had given him so many times before.

"We want to help," Astrid declares, arms over her chest. For good measure, she tacks on, "Please."

"He sounds gross," Snotlout mumbles, Astrid elbowing him roughly in his side.

"He's _sick_. Stop it."

"Enough," Stoick commands, voice low. Their concern is touching, but he's still their chief. "You want to help—I commend that. But you must understand, what Hiccup has—"

"Is contagious," Astrid finishes, nodding resolutely.

"We know." Snotlout shrugs. "No offense, but when Hiccup gets sick, he gets _really_ sick. We asked Gothi…"

"And she told us we could help," Astrid finishes, hands on her hips, and Stoick considers, _very briefly_, leaving them with Bucket for the night.

"Fine," he decides, the telltale sign of the water boiling making the decision for him. Hiccup's coughing has only slowed, not ended, and the teens are pale at the sound. "Snotlout, fetch your dragon. We need fire. Astrid, come with me."

Snotlout gives a tight nod, heading off, and Astrid is on Stoick's heels as he yanks the pot off the hook and sets it on the floor. He dips the rag in, ignoring the burn, and wrings it out, pressing it into Astrid's waiting hands.

"Around your mouth, lass," he explains, taking the last one they have and repeating the process. "Not sure if it'll do much, but just in case."

She does as instructed, tying it around her mouth and just under her nose; Stoick hands her the second rag and lugs the pot of water back onto the hook, nodding for her to follow him into the bedroom as he says, "He's not well, Astrid. Prepare yourself."

She says nothing to that.

Hiccup remains on his side, but his eyes are unfocused and glassed, pained when he tries to meet Stoick's gaze. He's shivering again, and Stoick doesn't show his worry when he catches sight of the acid and bile next to his son's mouth on the bed. Astrid shouldn't be here witnessing this, and he regrets allowing her to, but she's resolute as she brings the cloth up to his mouth.

"…'strid?" Hiccup groans, and Stoick turns to Astrid.

"Lass, do your parents have extra cloth they can part with?"

She nods, face hard but otherwise showing no emotion at the scene in front of her.

Good. It'll give her a breather from the staunch of sickness, and they need the supplies. He says, "We'll need a few, and I need to move him off the bed."

"I'll be back as soon as I can," she says, handing Stoick the dirty rag and bolting out on a mission.

Stoick sets to work, freeing Hiccup from the soiled blankets and carrying him into the main room, tucking him back into his own bed as he struggles to breathe through the blockage of his lungs. Stoick could blame the weather, the trades, whatever deities that allowed his son to fall so grievously ill, but he knows that it will come to nothing. Hiccup gives a feeble moan, and Stoick reaches for his hand, squeezing tightly; whatever has plagued his son, Stoick can't fight in battle. He can only plead to the gods for Hiccup to survive.

And as Hiccup gives one last shuddering, shallow breath, Stoick fears the gods have ceased to listen.


End file.
